


The Case of the Murdering Mother

by Sandboy28



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Non-Consensual Spanking, Other, Paddling, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2317349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandboy28/pseuds/Sandboy28
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes on his strangest and most dangerous case yet! Can he defeat an insane old woman murdering young men on the streets of London?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Murdering Mother

The Case of the Murdering Mother

At twenty seven, Sherlock Holmes was a devilishly handsome young man. At six foot one inch, he was tall and very lean. His long, pale face was framed by an unruly mop of coal black curls. His wide-set, almond shaped eyes azure blue and burning with intelligence and framed by thick, soft, dark eyelashes and expressive, wide-set brows. His straight, slightly retrouse nose and full, cupid’s bow lips made him almost angelic in appearance. His hands were soft and pale with long, thin fingers. His posture so perfect as to make his lumbar curve elegant. His bottom, surprisingly pert for someone so lean. He was blessed with long, strong legs and a slightly muscular upper body. In short, a perfect specimen of a young, adult male.  
It was extremely lucky for him that he was such a perfect specimen. It made up for his sharp, acerbic tongue. Although never officially diagnosed, he suffered from every negative aspect of Aspurger’s autism. He was simply incapable of reigning in his mouth. Owing partly to the condition and partly to the arrogance that comes with being very young and very, very intelligent. Those angelic looks and his unerring ability to pull pitiful, ‘who, me?’ faces got him out of many scrapes he had gotten himself into.  
His flat mate and partner, Doctor John Watson was a full decade his senior and long suffering enough to tolerate Sherlock’s acid tongue. He would liberally scold him for his social faux pas and Sherlock would drop his head, peering up at him through that canopy of dark lashes and mutter meekly: “Not good?” It was damned hard to get angry with him.  
Their landlady at 221b Baker Street was a sweet, patient and generous lady named Mrs. Hudson. Neither of the boys, as she called them knew her first name. It just seemed unseemly to John to call her by a first name and Sherlock was still technically too young to have earned the privilege. Mrs. Hudson had adopted them both, treating them like sons. She dealt with Sherlock as any mother would; gently scolding him when he was naughty and giving him a light swat on the bottom to emphasize. Sherlock was respectful of her. In truth he loved her to bits and would die to protect her. John felt the same way.  
Sherlock had an older brother, Mycroft who was seven years his senior. Mycroft served in the British Government, wielding a great deal of power and influence. He and Sherlock had a difficult relationship which stemmed from his constant attempts to parent his young brother. Sherlock resented this, reasoning that their parents were still quite alive and present in their lives. Still, Mycroft felt a great deal of responsibility for Sherlock, reigning him in when his youthful exuberance got him into trouble.  
Along with his stunning looks, brilliant mind and singular ability to get in and then out of trouble, Sherlock was a nonpareil detective. So proficient at deductive and inductive reasoning that he was indispensable to Chief Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard.  
Lestrade was actually the first in the group besides Mycroft to have met Sherlock. He had rescued the youngster from a gang of thugs in a dark alley, kicking the crap out of him and robbing him as he tried to buy cocaine from them. He had been cowering in that alley, whimpering and badly beaten. He was barely conscious as Lestrade gently carried him to safety. The DI had resolved to help this brilliant youngster straighten his life out. So far, it had been a successful experiment. Sherlock had grown these past five years into a decent, law abiding young man and Lestrade was very proud of him. He still felt paternal towards him and dished out his own kind of discipline when Sherlock strayed from the mark. He knew Sherlock loved to work for the Yard more than anything and Lestrade found that grounding him for a few days was very effective punishment. More than once he had been tempted to turn the boy over his knee and give him a proper spanking. Sherlock’s wide-eyed innocence of his own social mistakes and mournful look saved his little behind more than once.  
As the World’s only consulting detective, Sherlock frequently placed himself in danger’s path. It was part of the job. The people in his life worried constantly that this bright, young light would be snuffed out too soon. As bright as he was, Sherlock had a blind spot when it came to personal safety. Both John and Lestrade did everything they could to keep him safe, but there were times when it just wasn’t possible. throughout though, Sherlock did exercise enough caution to warrant trust in his methods. That was until the case of the Murderous Mother. 

* * * 

Chief Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to contain his disgust at the crime scene. The victim, a young, dark haired man was bound and gagged, laying on his side in the empty flat in Soho. He hadn’t been dead long, as he was still warm to the touch and looked peaceful, as though sleeping. Lestrade pulled out his mobile and keyed a text, invoking his ace in the hole, Sherlock Holmes.  
A black taxi pulled up on the street in front of the murder scene and Sherlock unfolded his lithe frame, dressed in his usual uniform: A long, dark grey Belstaff coat, blue scarf and black leather gloves. His partner, John was in tow. Sherlock bounded up the stairs and swept into the room, by passing an annoyed Detective Constable Anderson who always gave him a ‘what are you doing here’ look.  
“You’re gonna like this one.” Lestrade began. “Coroner says he’s fresh. Maybe only three hours old and he can’t see an obvious cause of death.”  
Sherlock nodded to John who stooped and examined the young man’s corpse. “So why haven’t you sent him to St. Bart’s? Why was I called?”  
Lestrade smiled and bent down, opening the dead man’s shirt front, revealing a message carved into his chest: 

I’ve been a bad boy

Sherlock’s eyebrows climbed high on his forehead. “Well. This is interesting.” John winced at the lettering compassionately.  
“Looks like it was done with something dull. Just sharp enough to cut the skin but wide. He would have really felt it, poor kid.”  
“Any idea what caused his death?’ Lestrade asked.  
John shook his head slowly. “Not that I can tell from just looking. Maybe let Molly have a go at him?’  
Sherlock picked over the body, rifling through the pockets and trousers. He lifted the foot and examined the bottom of the shoe. He observed several things immediately: This young man was a white collar worker, probably in software or something similar. His hands were soft and uncalloused. His clothes were casual but clean. His trainers, expensive. Sherlock pulled a baggie from his coat pocket and a small blade. He scraped a bit of something from the bottom of the trainer and put it into the bag for later analysis.  
“Well?’ Lestrade prodded impatiently.  
Sherlock gave him a frustrated wave of the hand. “Not here. Meet us at St. Barts. Bring your friend and Molly and I will see what we see.” He swept out of the room with john trailing behind, leaving Lestrade to do the rest.  
“You need me? At St. Bart’s I mean?” John queried as they made their way downstairs.  
“Uhmmmm, no. Not yet anyway.” Sherlock replied.  
“Okay. Good. Well I’ve got a date tonight. Call me if you need me.” He turned on the street and headed for the Tube. Sherlock hailed a cab and went to St. Bart’s Hospital.

* * *

Molly Hooper made no attempts to hide the fact that she fancied Sherlock. She was young, like him and brilliant. She had been the Medical Examiner at St. bart’s since her apprenticeship ended two years before. Sherlock enjoyed working with her because she understood how uncomfortable idle conversation was to him. Still, she tried to coax him to talk from time to time.  
“Sherlock, come and look at this.” Sherlock grunted and left his microscope to join Molly at the autopsy table. The young man, naked now and lying on his back was being prepped for an extensive autopsy. When Sherlock came to the table Molly turned the body over  
to reveal his buttocks, which were bruised and criss-crossed with lash marks.  
“He’s been whipped with something. And possibly paddled before that, poor thing.”  
Sherlock regarded it coldly, taking note of the size and length of the contusions. “Yes, well Molly I doubt he can feel it now.” he said dispassionately.  
Molly pulled a face and followed him as he returned to the microscope. “Well he did before he died, poor lamb. That was an awful hiding.” Her face read sadness.  
Sherlock sighed and resumed his examination of slides. She decided to go back and continue her exam. She started by inspecting his anal cavity. She was surprised to find pieces of what looked like blue plastic. She removed as much as she could and tagged them in a petrie dish for analysis.  
Lestrade showed up an hour later, just as Molly was weighing the internal organs. “Well, anything yet?” Molly began by informing him that the young man had been subjected to a brutal whipping. She showed the DI photos of the injuries. Lestrade winced in compassion. “Poor fellow.” he said thoughtfully.  
“There was something else.” Molly said. “I found a substance in his rectum that I thought might be plastic but Sherlock says it’s pieces of a gel capsule.” She showed them to Lestrade.  
“Gel capsule? Up his jacksey?”  
Sherlock weighed in. “It was no doubt forced into him by his killer in a clumsy attempt to sedate him. Traces of a strong sedative were present on the fragments. Whoever did this obviously wasn’t clever enough to realize that they would have worked better if ingested orally.”  
“There was also residue from a suppository. tigan or promethezine. Anti nausea medicines.”  
“I think he had been ill.” Sherlock interjected. he may have been to the local A&E. You should circulate the photo Molly took of him to try and I.D. him.”  
Lestrade took the photo and stuffed it in his pocket. “Right.”  
“I have analyzed the scrapings from his trainer. Traces of iron ore, salt and vegetation, probably sea weed.”  
“The docks!” Lestrade said excitedly. “Keep me apprised.” He said as he left. 

* * *

The elderly woman who stood over the gurney, weeping piteously watched as a sheet was drawn over his head. She was led away by Molly who seemed ready to burst into tears herself. Sherlock, John and Lestrade stood behind the double doors of the morgue, talking.  
“Twenty seven year old James Carsley. A software designer and freelance graphic artist. he was single, well educated and from what everyone I interviewed says, a nice young man.” Lestrade finished his lowdown with a sigh.  
“Obviously, someone took issue with him.” Sherlock said flatly. “Has anyone questioned the mother?”  
“No, you don’t!” Lestrade suddenly snipped sharply. “I’m letting Donovan handle the interviews with her.”  
Sherlock spared Lestrade a slightly wounded but quizzical look.  
“Of course.” John interjected. “She’s got to be in pretty bad shape.”  
“She may know something…” Sherlock began.  
“And she may not.” Lestrade broke in. “Either way, I don’t need you upsetting her by…by…”  
“Being myself.” Sherlock added dryly.  
“Yeah.” He shot Sherlock a sympathetic look. “Look, be a good boy and gather evidence somewhere else.”  
Sherlock watched the older man walk away, frowning at the ‘good boy’ invective, as though he were a child to be send off. He ruffled his coat, looking to John like a bird fluffing its feathers.  
John shot Sherlock a puzzled look as he noticed the young detective’s face had changed. He had that look. The one he always got when an epiphany arose. “What…?” He began.  
“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, seeming shocked at the dawning realization. “What did Lestrade call me?” He was grinning now, shark like. It made John vaguely uncomfortable.  
“A….uhm…good boy?” He offered hesitantly.  
“Yes! brilliant!”  
John’s mouth turned up at the corners. “It’s brilliant that he called you a good boy?” he was charmed by Sherlock’s delight.  
“Yes! Don’t you see? John! What was carved into the dead man’s chest?’  
John thought for a moment. “I’ve been a bad boy.” He replied, slowly. He looked at Sherlock quizzically.  
“We’re not looking for a male killer, John. We need to aim out enquiries at mothers!”  
John frowned slightly. “you mean because of the message you think some older woman killed that man?’  
“Yes! John, think!” His voice rose in pitch as he spoke. “When I was a boy, when you were a boy, what did your mother always tell you?”  
“To…be a good boy?” John hazarded.  
“Yes!”  
“Your mother more frequently I’ll wager.”  
Sherlock ignored the barb. “Whoever murdered the victim was female. That was apparent from the difficulty she had carving the words on the victim’s chest. Skin is tough, John. It takes effort to break it. A man, even a young woman would have had no trouble doing it but an elderly woman…”  
“Yes.”  
“The message too, John. ‘I’ve been a bad boy.’ Not something a man would normally say about another man.”  
“I see.” John replied. “So we’re looking for an older woman who…may have lost her child to…”  
“A dark haired young man!” Sherlock interjected.  
John thought about this for a moment and his expression sobered.  
“what? What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.  
“ Sherlock. She murdered a dark haired young man of twenty seven.’  
“Yes?”  
“You’re a dark haired young man of twenty seven!” John breathed, a look of fear dawning on his face. 

* * *

Sherlock thumbed through dozens of police reports back at 221b. He was looking for any murders committed by men who fit his own description. The computer files had narrowed it down to four dozen. He frowned as he searched. Suddenly Mrs. Hudson pecked on the door to the flat.  
“Hoo hoo!” She called, stepping in with a bag of something that smelled tasty from Speedy’s. John stood and took the bag, giving her a peck on the cheek. Sherlock looked up to see her standing there, smiling at him as she always did. That dreamy look of soppy love she had for him. Motherly…..! He stood suddenly, making both John and Mrs. Hudson jump. He moved quickly to her, forcing himself to smile.  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” he said in his best, ‘good boy’ voice. She smiled back.  
“You’re welcome dear. It’s just some sandwiches from downstairs….”  
Sherlock reached down and seized her face in both hands. “Dear Mrs. Hudson.” He said, forcing civility. Mrs. Hudson looked unsure of how to take this from him. He normally shooed her off impolitely. This was a new behaviour. “Do you have a moment?’ he asked politely.  
She smiled tentatively. ‘Well, yes of course.” He led her to the sofa and sat down with her, grasping her hand warmly. She looked to John who shrugged, not knowing what the hell to think.  
“Sherlock, are you quite alright/” She offered.  
Sherlock grinned broadly, shark like. His face folded into dimples and his eyes reflected unaccustomed warmth. “Yes. I’m fine. I just wanted to ask your opinion on something.”  
A beatified smile overspread Mrs. Hudson’s face. “Oh, Sherlock! of course dear. Anything I can do to help.”  
“Lovely…that’s….lovely.” Sherlock grinned his scary grin. He stared at her, making her squirm slightly. “Mrs. Hudson, you have several children, don’t you?’ He ventured.  
Her smile softened. “Yes. I have four sons, all older than you.” She looked every bit the sweet, proud mother.  
“Have they always been well behaved?’ He asked.  
“Well they were boys, you realize.” She began. “They were mostly well behaved. When they weren’t I dealt with it.”  
“How?” Sherlock pressed.  
“I spanked their bottoms. I can tell you they behaved after that…”  
“What did you say to them before you spanked them?” Sherlock asked.  
“I usually told them they’d been bad boys…”  
“AHA!” Sherlock suddenly shouted, jumping to his feet.” Mrs. Hudson started, grasping her necklace.  
“Sherlock! What’s gotten into you?’  
Sherlock found himself again and sat back down. “I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson.” He said calmly, patting her hand. “Just a few more questions if I may.”  
She nodded, her brows furrowed. Sherlock leaned in and nearly whispered.  
“How? How did you spank them?’ he asked.  
Looking puzzled, she answered. “When they were little I put them over my knee and spanked them with my hand. When they were a bit older I paddled them. What’s this about, Sherlock?”  
John cut in suddenly; “It’s for a case, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock thinks a young man was killed by a mother.”  
Mrs. Hudson’s face contorted with sadness. “Oh my! How could any mother kill a child?”  
“It wasn’t a child, Mrs. Hudson. It was a man my age.” Sherlock interjected.  
“Sherlock, I realize this is hard for you to understand dear but mothers always see their children as little ones.”  
“No. Mrs. Hudson, the woman killed a young man who wasn’t her son.” John said.  
Mrs. Hudson regarded John and Sherlock with fondness. “Boys. What do you think I see when I look at the two of you?” She said softly. “I’m saying that I cannot understand how any woman who has had children can kill a child. Anyone’s child.”  
“They do though.” John said sadly.  
Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock and reached up, stroking his lean face. Her expression was one of tenderness. “Oh Sherlock. Don’t you see? I worry about you and John so because I feel like your mum. I know I don’t have any right to, but I do. If anything ever happened to either one of you I would never get over it.”  
Sherlock gazed down at Mrs. Hudson’s sweet face, his own relaxing into that of his core being: A sweet, tender young man who was in the presence of a parent figure. So sweet was his expression and so young his look, Mrs. Hudson reached up and planted a tender kiss on his cheek. Sherlock blushed and blinked, making her smile all the more. John sat nearby and felt a warmth spread throughout his being at this tender tableau. She let her hands fall to her lap and smiled at this sweet young man who tried so hard to be distant.  
“Mind you, Sherlock there are many times when I’m tempted to take one of my spoons to your little behind.” She scolded gently, still smiling. A huge smile overspread John’s face. “You are a good boy though, Sherlock and I love you.”  
Still trapped in Mrs. Hudson’s tender spell, Sherlock smiled suddenly. This time sweetly, the true innocence coming through in those big, wide-set azure eyes. “I love you too Mrs. Hudson.” he whispered.  
A tear slipped down Mrs. Hudson’s cheek and she stood suddenly, turning away to wipe it. “Was that all, Sherlock because I have so much to do…” She tried to leave but Sherlock suddenly stood, towering over her and tugged her into an embrace. She wrapped her arms around his slender waist and gave him a motherly pat on the backside. He smiled again. When he broke the embrace he looked down at her and thanked her for her help. John wondered inwardly who this young man was and what had he done with Sherlock!  
Mrs. Hudson left and John continued to smile at Sherlock. He moved to where Sherlock stood and clapped him on the back. Sherlock turned and looked at him soberly. Sherlock’s face bore that same, wolfish look it always did when he was plotting something brilliant.  
“What?’ Sherlock hissed impatiently.  
John’s smile never dipped as he replied: “Nothing, nothing at all.” 

* * *

Across town, late that night a young, slim, dark haired man was face down, handcuffed across a table, his trousers down to his knees. A wicked looking paddle was being applied with considerable force to his vulnerable backside. Tears fell from his eyes and his tortured face grimaced as it slammed down upon his buttocks again, and again. His muted screams, muffled by the cloth gag in his mouth, went unheard in the night. 

* * *

The next morning the young man’s body was found in another abandoned building. This time a warehouse on the outskirts of London. The same M.O., same injuries and same cause of death: drug overdose. Lestrade called Sherlock and John to this crime scene as well but Sherlock was less concerned with the corpse and more with the scene itself. He walked in a large circle, scanning the floor of the building for anything.  
“Sherlock, the body’s over here mate.” Lestrade called. Sherlock looked up briefly and dismissed him.  
Suddenly he stooped to the floor and picked something up with those long fingers, encased in latex. He walked over to the two men.  
“What is it?” Lestrade asked.  
Sherlock held it up between his index finger and thumb. It was an earring. The old fashioned clip on kind. Gaudy and ugly but nearly new in appearance. Sherlock opened an evidence bag and dropped it in, handing it to Lestrade.  
“What does it mean?” Lestrade queried, cluelessly.  
“It’s a clue, detective inspector.”  
“Sherlock, maybe you should take us through it.” John prodded.  
“For several days I’ve been convinced that our murderer was a women. More specifically, a mother.” Lestrade broke in impatiently:  
“Woah, whoa. Are you saying you think this was an old lady?” His face was incredulous.  
“Yes.” Sherlock answered. “It had to be. It fits.”  
“How the hell could an old lady get the better of a young, fit fellow like him?” Lestrade fired back.  
Sherlock grunted in frustration. “It FITS!” he growled.  
“How, Sherlock? How could an old lady take someone this young down?”  
Sherlock seemed to ponder this for a moment then his face lit up. “Perhaps I could arrange a demonstration.” 

* * *

Mrs. Hudson arrived at St. Barts, carrying a box of scones from Speedy’s. She was smiling broadly having never been invited to Sherlock’s place of work before. John showed her into the lab where Sherlock and Lestrade stood by. Sherlock stood up from his seat at the microscope and welcomed her inside.  
“Oh, Sherlock! this is all very interesting.” Her cheeks were flushed and she appeared twenty years younger. John smiled at her eagerness to help. “How can I help you?”  
Sherlock fetched a deep breath and walked over to her, taking the scones and setting them down on a table. “Mrs. Hudson, do you remember telling me recently that you sometimes have a mind to spank me?”  
Mrs. Hudson blushed and laughed musically.  
“Yes! And I meant that Sherlock. You are a lovely young man but sometimes…”  
“Yes.” Sherlock cut her off, herding her gently to a lab table. “And how would you accomplish that?” he asked sweetly. Lestrade’s eyebrows knit at hearing Sherlock’s change of tone. Mrs. Hudson looked at the three men and replied;  
“Why, I’d just grab your ear and you’d follow.” She chuckled.  
“What if he struggled, Mrs. Hudson?” John asked.  
“He wouldn’t. If he did though I would bloody well make him!” She cackled with laughter.  
“Would you care to demonstrate?” Sherlock shocked her by asking.  
She looked at all three men, incredulous. “You mean right now?”  
Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”  
“Well I’m not angry and I don’t think you deserve it right now.” She replied, wondering where this was leading.  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What if I told you that the gentleman you were waiting to see last Friday night wasn’t held up by a train? That the reason he didn’t show up is that I threatened to expose him for internet child porn?”  
Saintly Mrs. Hudson’s expression began to fall. It was as if s storm were brewing there. “Oh Sherlock! Is it true? Did you do that?” She asked, her face growing darker by the second.  
Sherlock seemed to brace himself as he replied:  
“Yes Mrs. Hudson. It is true.”  
Two seconds later, this tiny, saintly woman in her seventies leaped into the air like a ninja, grabbing Sherlock by his left ear and pulling him down, across the lab table. The only weapon at her disposal was a long, metal test tube rack. She grabbed it and began to wail on Sherlock’s bottom. He struggled to get up as the rack impacted his seat but Mrs. Hudson put her entire body weight into holding him down and paddling his backside. He yelped and Lestrade tried to intervene but he had his hand slapped, hard. She was a woman gone insane. Sherlock began to protest and finally spoke up:  
“Mrs. Hudson!” He yelled. “It’s not true! I only said it to make you angry enough to spank me!” Both John and Lestrade tried to pry her off but she had her way, leaving Sherlock panting and well spanked.  
Finally, she stopped the paddling and threw the test tube rack down. It was bent out of shape. Her face was calmer but she was a sweaty, disheveled mess.  
“Mrs. Hudson, it wasn’t true.” John said, wiping her forehead gently. “Sherlock only said it to get you to spank him. He was demonstrating how easy it is for a woman of your size and age to overcome someone Sherlock’s size and age.”  
This seemed to snap her into reality again. Suddenly she turned to Sherlock who was just recovering, rubbing his backside furiously and wincing through teary eyes. The mother aspect of Mrs. Hudson came back in force.  
“Oh, Sherlock! I’m so sorry dear! Your poor little bum. Come here.” She pulled him into a tight hug and patted his bum tenderly. “There, there.” she cooed.  
Sherlock, looking over her head to the two men smirking in the room recovered his dignity quickly. “I’m alright Mrs. Hudson.” He gently prized her off him and smiled at her to prove how alright he was. He turned to Lestrade and John:  
“Gentlemen, This tiny woman effectively overpowered me and inflicted a thorough spanking upon me and neither of you were able to prevent it. I put to you that our killer is an elderly woman. She has killed not one but two men of my size and age in as many days. We need to begin to look for a woman.”  
Lestrade and John nodded in agreement and Mrs. Hudson, looking confused as usual, gave Sherlock a few pats on his backside, making him wince. 

* * *

The murder files were scrupulously searched, turning up nothing. It wasn’t until Mrs. Hudson spoke up that evening in the flat that a breakthrough was made. Sherlock had changed into his indoor uniform: Lounge pants, T-shirt and his dressing gown and was laying on his stomach on the sofa as Mrs. Hudson gently applied an ice pack to his tender backside.  
‘Sherlock I am so sorry for spanking you unjustly.”  
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes as the coolness of the ice pack soothed the flame in his rump. “It’s fine Mrs. Hudson. It was my fault for goading you into it.”  
John spoke up. “I have to say, I’m impressed Mrs. Hudson. I certainly didn’t think anyone could give Sherlock a walloping like that.” Sherlock shot him a nasty look and John chuckled.  
“I raised four sons, all bigger and stronger than our Sherlock.” She said, indulging in babying Sherlock and his wounded hindquarters. “I honestly don’t know why you boys are looking for a murdered boy. It could have been a girl you realize.” her words shot through Sherlock’s sharp mind like a rocket!  
‘Mrs. Hudson!” he yelped suddenly. She cooed, thinking she had hurt his tender behind. “You are a genius!” he jumped up and grabbed her head, kissing her forehead with a huge SMACK! She giggled and replied.  
“What are you on about you silly boy?’  
“John! Ring Lestrade and tell him we’ve been going about this all wrong. We need to narrow the search to female victims of killers my age!” He flew into his bedroom and appeared minutes later, fully dressed. “The game is on!” Sherlock exclaimed, forgetting his sore behind and bounding down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson watched him go, worry spread over her face. 

* * *

It took another week to finally narrow the list of suspects down to three old women. Sherlock reckoned there was only one way to determine which one it was. He would pay them a visit, disguised as a software salesman.  
Neither John nor Lestrade were very keen on Sherlock going this alone. After a great deal of squirming and argument Sherlock finally agreed to wear a wire and a GPS tracking chip in his clothing. He would dress similarly to the young man whose body was discovered first: Loose fitting Dockers, a white T-shirt and button up casual shirt, tucked into the waist. He would wear trainers on his feet. He completed the nerd look with a pair of dark rimmed glasses. Molly slicked his hair down, as much as the unruly curls would allow and his disguise was complete.  
John, Lestrade and Molly all snickered at Sherlock in this get up. But they were all deeply concerned as well. Lestrade strongly cautioned him about taking unnecessary chances. He began by flagging down a taxi and heading for the residential part of Crouch End. Replete with a tan jacket and leather briefcase, he came to his first house.  
The car with Lestrade and John inside, monitoring the wire was just up the street. Sherlock knocked on the door and it was answered by a wizened old woman who looked as though she’d have a struggle opening a jam jar.  
“Can I help you young man?” She said weakly. Sherlock instantly deduced that she was too disabled by arthritis to have killed anyone and excused himself.  
He went back to the car and was driven to the next one, in a nice area with brownstones similar to the house his parents had. He rang the doorbell and was greeted by a very fat old woman in a wheelchair. he excused himself and went back to the car, cursing under his breath.  
The third and last house was a stand alone with a wrought iron fence and charming ivy climbing the outer walls. He used a big, antique knocker and moments later a quite large old lady answered. She looked quite sturdy and seemed to size Sherlock up with considerable interest.  
“Well hello there.” She said as though she were sizing up a basketful of ripe fruit.  
Sherlock cleared his throat and began with his carefully rehearsed pitch. “Yes ma’am. I’m selling software for the new property tax calculator. Could you please spare a moment of your time to take a look?’  
She narrowed her eyes and replied sweetly:  
“Come in, sweetheart.”  
John and Lestrade traded looks as Sherlock moved inside. He sized the room up, cataloging every photo, trinket and tiny bit of minutia that could serve as a possible indication of her involvement in these murders.  
“Would you like a cup of tea?” She asked sweetly. Sherlock declined and began pumping her immediately.  
“This is a nice home, how long have you lived here?’ he asked conversationally.  
“Oh, I’ve been here the better part of thirty years. My late husband bought this place when my daughter was alive.” Her face pinched at the reference and Sherlock was on it like a laser.  
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Was she ill?’ He prodded.  
“No, she was killed by her fiancé.”  
Bingo! Sherlock thought and Lestrade said out loud.  
“How terrible for you.” he coaxed.  
Her eyes narrowed as she spoke from some nightmare only she could see. “She was only twenty seven years old. She got engaged to a boy who seemed perfectly normal. We all just loved him dearly.” She was squeezing her skirt into bunches on the tops of her thighs as she spoke. Sherlock made his best attempt to be sympathetic.  
“Oh dear! Was he ever caught?” he watched as she licked her too-red lips and stared him down like prey. She seemed to be sizing him up.  
“Yes, but they declared him insane. He went to the asylum and is still there, living and enjoying life while my baby rots in her grave.” A drop of sweat trickled down her temple. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.  
“But that isn’t your worry, is it? What did you say your name was?’  
She caught Sherlock off guard and he stuttered: “Sher…uhm…William. My name is William.”  
She suddenly smiled broadly at him, breaking the spell. “What a sweet name! William. is your mother alive, William?”  
“Uhm…y…yes ma’am.” He said shyly.  
“I know she’s awfully proud of such a nice boy as you.” She gushed. “Such a good boy.” The words pierced Sherlock through and he suddenly snapped out of the spell. She had called him a ‘good boy!’ he wondered randomly how many dead young men she had left in her wake.  
“Yes ma’am. She is very proud of me.”  
“Now,” she began; ‘What do you want to show me?” Sherlock picked up his briefcase and pulled out a brochure on software he had pinched from the local software supplier and gave her a quick rundown on its properties. She thanked him cordially but explained she had no computer and wouldn’t know what to do with one if she had. Sherlock stood and thanked her for her time and left, glad to be away from her.  
Back at the car, Lestrade and John were jubilant.  
‘Well done you!” Lestrade chuffed, pounding Sherlock on his back. “We just need to surveil her until she makes a move." He drove Sherlock and John back to the lab where Sherlock gratefully divested himself of the ridiculous garments and came out of the men’s room looking himself again. Molly, who always thought Sherlock to be a bit of alright was most grateful of all. 

* * *

Thinking himself to be finished with all but the court testimony, Sherlock settled into his usual routine, haunting St. Barts, chasing down clues and being a general sleuth. When it became apparent that Lestrade had the rest of the case with the elderly woman he relaxed into his usual routine. Neither John nor Lestrade seemed particularly worried.  
The following Thursday, John sent Sherlock to the chippy for their tea. Feeling particularly satisfied with himself and relaxed, Sherlock sauntered down Gower Street toward the shop. It was fully dark out and a cold breeze swept down the street, making Sherlock turn his collar up against the wind. As he neared the shop something strange caught his eye.  
A young fellow about Sherlock’s age and height was chatting on the street with a familiar figure. Sherlock’s hackles rose when he realized the figure was the very woman he had staked out two days earlier! How she had given Lestrade and company the slip he didn’t know but he intended to find out. The woman seemed to have enticed the young man to carry a particularly heavy bag of shopping for her. Sherlock decided to tail them.  
The pair slipped into an unlit doorway and disappeared. Sherlock sidled up to it, peeking through the glass carefully. It was unlocked so naturally, Sherlock took it as an invitation. Once inside he realized that this was an empty flat. In fact the entire portion of the building seemed unoccupied. Perfect for a murder he mused as he stepped deeper into the place. It smelled of mold and mildew. Dust was everywhere and it appeared to have been abandoned long ago. There was absolutely no sign of the old woman and the man.  
Sherlock moved quietly toward a closed door, turning the knob slowly. The door swung open soundlessly. The old woman stood in the middle of the room, seemingly by herself. That was the last think Sherlock thought before being knocked unconscious. 

* * *

Sounds first. It was always the first faculty to recover, Sherlock thought blearily as he came to. His next perception was cold. He was face down on some sort of padded bench or table. His heart began to speed up when he realized he couldn’t move. His wrists were secured with restraint cuffs, his arms drawn straight out, in front of his head. His ankles were secured in similar fashion. He felt a strange draft and quickly realized that he was apparently naked from his lower back to his knees. There was some kind of wedge under his hips, elevating his rump above the table. As his mind cleared and he realized the position he was in he began to panic! he struggled, trying to pull his arms and legs loose to no avail.  
“Well, hello there young man.” The old woman said in an oily voice. “Don’t bother, you can’t get away.” he felt a soft, warm hand caress his bare backside, sending shivers up his spine.  
“Wh…where the hell am I?” He huffed, trying to shake the effects of the blow to his head.  
“Never mind that. We need to have a little talk, you and I.”  
“A…a talk?”  
“Yes. A long talk. You’ve been a very naughty boy!”  
The sound of that sentence turned Sherlock’s blood to ice. “I have? What have I done, I don’t even know you.” Suddenly a painful SMACK was administered on his bottom, making him gasp and yelp. “Ow!”  
“No more of your lies, young man. Did you think I couldn’t figure out who you were when you came to my house? I knew who you were. Sherlock Holmes, the nosy little detective.” She let loose a dry cackle, sounding like a Halloween witch.  
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew who I was?” Sherlock asked, thinking of ways to escape this madness.  
“I didn’t want to tip you off.” She said. “I knew you were bait to draw me out. That’s why I’ve stayed at home these past few days. Didn’t want the police to catch me doing something they might not understand.”  
“Like cold blooded murder!’ Sherlock hissed. Another painful smack impacted the tender skin of his backside. He gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out this time. He didn’t want to give the old bitch the satisfaction.  
“Behave yourself!” She scolded.  
“Or what, you’ll kill me? You plan to do that anyway.” He spat bitterly.  
She walked around and used both hands to turn Sherlock’s head to face her. She stared at him with a soft, maternal look. His face was soft in the low light of the room. His eyes huge and filled with unspoken fear. “As cute as you are, I can’t let you stop me. Besides, you’re one of them aren’t you?” She said bitterly.  
“One of what?” Sherlock asked.  
“One of those little bastards that seduce innocent young girls and murder them in cold blood.” Her voice broke. Sherlock tried to reason with her:  
“I’ve never killed anyone! You are murdering men who are completely innocent! You’re mad and you MUST be stopped!”  
Her face twisted in anger and she walked around and picked up a large, round paddle and proceeded to spank Sherlock’s bottom with it. She really put her shoulder into it and Sherlock’s bottom turned a bright pink very quickly. He cried out in pain and lifted his head, grimacing. The swats stung like a million bees and Sherlock writhed and gasped.  
“Why punish me?” He growled, catching his breath. “You know I’m not the one who killed your daughter!”  
The old woman stopped paddling him and rested a hand on his bottom. She began to rub it gently. Sherlock hissed, his bottom stinging fiercely. “Shhhhh. There, there.” She smiled maternally down at him. She stroked his soft, young face with one hand, encountering a tear that had slipped from his eyes despite his efforts not to cry. Her heart was squeezed with pity. She gazed down at him, really looking at him.  
Sherlock lay still now. His big, blue eyes moist with tears. His lower lip ever so slightly pouting like a toddler who has been spanked for nicking candy. He looked up at her, instantly recognizing pity on her face and he decided to use it to his advantage. “Please don’t spank me anymore.” He forced his voice up higher and lighter and gave her his best puppy dog eyes. It used to work wonders with his mother so he figured it may work with this psychopath. It was worth a try.  
The old woman smiled and mocked his pout, brushing the curls away from his face gently. “But you’ve been a naughty boy and mummy must spank you darling.” She picked the paddle back up and Sherlock mentally prepared for another round of abuse.  
“No! PLEASE!” he begged.  
‘THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!’  
Sherlock arched his back and howled in pain. He couldn’t help but cry. Desperate, he tried to play her sympathy. “Ow! Ow! No, Please! Mummy! It hurts!”  
Mummy? She put the paddle down quickly and ran to his head, cradling it gently. “Oh, oh, poor baby! Mummy’s sorry!” Her foul denture breath wafted into Sherlock’s nostrils, making his stomach roll. She leaned down and kissed his tear stained face. Her hand reached down and gently caressed Sherlock’s poor, scalded bottom. It felt like it was on fire! Sherlock moaned in pain and snuffled forlornly.  
Panic sharpened Sherlock’s already razor sharp mind.  
He deduced that as long as he referred to her as ‘mummy’ he could keep her off guard.  
“Mummy’s boy has been very naughty but I gave you a good spanking and now it’s over.” She cooed.  
Sherlock looked back at her, his lip trembling, blue eyes wide and innocent. “Can I get up now mummy?” he asked plaintively. Something seemed to happen then.  
Her face suddenly twisted, that furious, almost demonic look returning. She wheeled around to him, her eyes narrowing to stupid-smart pig eyes. Sherlock’s chest tightened. She picked the paddle up and began to blister Sherlock’s bottom again. He writhed in agony, the paddle’s sting blotting out everything except his tears. She spanked him viciously for at least two minutes without pause, leaving him limp and sobbing. I may never sit down again if I live that is, he thought. His mind turned back to his childhood and the severe spankings his father dished out to he and Mycroft. Just now he felt like a very foolish and guilty young boy who had needed a good hiding. His tears were very real. Finally she stopped. His backside throbbed and tears choked his throat.  
“What do you have to say for yourself, young man?” She demanded, hands on hips.  
“I…I’m…s…sorry!” He dissolved into wretched sobbing.  
She looked down at him for a few seconds, as long as she could stand it and then reached down and began to ghost her hand over his blistered bottom. He flinched violently and yipped at the light touch. The cry drilled right through ten years of deep psychosis and squeezed her heart. She realized that if she were going to kill this young man it would have to be now, before her resolve left her.  
Sherlock lay still, crying into the sheet draped over the table. She walked as if dazed to another table and picked up a huge hypodermic needle filled to the hilt with a liquid. She turned her gaze to Sherlock’s prone figure and started over with every intention of driving that needle into the fleshiest part of his buttock and delivering a lethal dose of sedative.  
She nearly made it to the table before Mrs. Hudson cracked her skull with a broken table leg. The old bird hit the floor with a Flump! and Mrs. Hudson ran to the table and untied Sherlock’s wrists and ankles. Seconds later Lestrade broke in, racing to Sherlock’s side. He was still on his belly, fetching ragged sobs as Mrs. Hudson pulled up his pants and trousers gently.  
John Watson ran to Sherlock and knelt down, shining a light into his flat mate’s eyes. ‘He’s been drugged but I think he’ll be okay. Let’s get him to St. Barts.”

* * *

Sherlock limped up the stairs at 221b Baker Street. he was surprised he could walk at all. His backside was badly bruised and ached to the bone. Once at the top he walked straight to the couch and flopped down, face down with a baritone moan. John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade followed, and embarrassingly, Donovan as well.  
“You’d better get to bed, Sherlock.” John proclaimed, happy to see his friend alive and breathing. Sherlock looked around, frowning at the sight of Donovan. She smiled and walked up to him, stroking his wild curls affectionately.  
“You look like crap.” She quipped, not unkindly. Shockingly, she bent down and kissed his cheek tenderly. “Glad ya didn’t die, freak.” Smiling, she tousled his hair and walked out, leaving the roomful gaping after her, including Sherlock.  
Mrs. Hudson ran to the kitchen to prepare an ice pack for Sherlock’s war wounds and John turned to Lestrade. “So she’s going to jail then, eh?”  
“Probably for the rest of her life. Sherlock saved a lot of young men tonight. But the real hero is you, Mrs. Hudson.” He said, smiling.  
Mrs. Hudson came in with the ice pack and laid it gently across Sherlock’s bottom. He hissed at first then relaxed as the coolness of the ice calmed his hurt. She stroked his long face maternally. “I did what any mother would do.” She offered modestly. “I got worried when Sherlock didn’t come back from the chippy. I went down the street until I found one of those kids. You know, Sherlock’s homeless network. They told me he followed an old woman and a man into an abandoned block of flats and I followed the trail until I found him.”  
“Well you were very brave and you have our thanks. ALL of our thanks, right Sherlock?”  
Sherlock said something muffled through the couch pillow and waved his hand. They all broke out laughing.  
“That was quite a hiding he got from that psycho women.” Lestrade said flatly.  
Mrs. Hudson smiled and patted Sherlock’s back as he drifted off. “I had to give that old bird what for.” She said, a trace of fury still in her voice. “After all, no one spanks my Sherlock but his mother and me!” Their laughter was the last thing Sherlock heard before he went to sleep.


End file.
